“Amy wanted to talk to you because of your job at the Mariachi,” Piper said. “We hoped you might be able to help us out. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
“Not at all. Shoot!” Caitlyn swung her large shoulder bag onto Piper’s counter with a clunk and climbed onto the stool. “Somebody looking for a job there?”
“Not exactly.” Piper explained about the murder situation.
“Oh yeah, I heard about that soccer guy getting shot. Weird, huh?”
“It is weird,” Piper agreed. “Especially since nobody can say yet who shot him, and the one person I’m convinced is innocent is having fingers pointed at him. We just learned that the victim’s widow has been showing up at the Mariachi with a man. Perhaps you’ve seen them? She’s very attractive, dark haired, and they’re most likely conversing in Italian.”
“Oh, those two! Yeah, I know who you mean. Wow, I didn’t know she was the murdered guy’s widow! Or any guy’s widow, for that matter. At least not so recent.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, her and the man she’s with? There’s sparks flying. I mean, they got the hots for each other, no joke.”
Piper hadn’t picked up any hint of that at the Cloverton. “Have you seen them there a lot?”
“Last night and the night before—Monday and Tuesday. And they like to sit in the back where it’s real cozy.” Caitlyn wiggled her eyebrows knowingly. “I’ll bet a week’s tips they show up tonight, too. If you want, I could save the table nearby for you. You could see for yourself.”
Piper didn’t jump at the idea of such a voyeuristic venture, but it occurred to her that confirming Caitlyn’s possibly overly dramatic interpretation of the two might be a good idea. Taking along someone who understood Italian was an even better idea. Could she scramble one up? There must be someone around.
“Yes, save me the table,” she said. “When are they likely to be there?”
“The last two nights, Romeo and Juliet—that’s what I called them to myself, though they’re a bit old for that—walked in at eight.”
“Okay, eight it is!”
“See you then.” Caitlyn grabbed her bag and swung her legs off the stool. As she headed toward the door, her large bag bumping into endcap displays of funnels, tongs, and canning jars along the way, Piper raced through a mental list of everyone she knew, searching for someone, anyone, who knew Italian. Then her eyes lit up.
Of course!
17
“But Coach Tortorelli would recognize me!” Miranda protested when Piper phoned and laid out her idea.
“How much and for how long did he actually see you?” Piper asked.
The line went silent as Miranda pondered that. “Not that much,” she finally said. “And it was never one-on-one. I was with all the other cheerleaders when he was around.”
“So you were one of several girls of similar age, many of them blond, and all dressed alike,” Piper said. “I doubt he’d remember you from that, don’t you? Did he ever run into you when you were with Frederico?”
“Oh no.”
“Then I think you’re safe. I, on the other hand, did speak face-to-face with Tortorelli just yesterday, but I’ll figure out some way to be less recognizable.”
Miranda giggled. “Dark glasses with a fake nose?”
“All out of them at the moment,” Piper said, smiling. “But I’ll come up with something. Are you okay with doing this, Miranda? It might make a huge difference, but it might also be a big nothing, or worse, turn into an embarrassment.”
“I’m a hundred percent okay with it, Piper. If it helps my dad in any way whatsoever, it’ll be worth it, whatever happens. I can’t guarantee I’ll pick up everything they say in Italian, though,” Miranda said. “I didn’t exactly get fluent in school. I’ve practiced a bit with Frederico, but we mostly stick to English.”
“Just do what you can do,” Piper said. “See you soon.”
As she hung up, Piper thought about Miranda’s disguise suggestion. Piper did have glasses, the emergency backups to the contacts she generally wore. Was the pair currently tucked into her end table drawer enough to significantly change her appearance? Her inclination was that they weren’t. Then she thought of something and smiled. Did Aunt Judy still have that pair Piper had worn back in middle school? She’d find out.
“Uncle Frank teases me about all the odd things I hang on to,” Aunt Judy said. “But isn’t it lucky, now, that I do?” She held out the pair of oversize, cat’s-eye-framed glasses speckled in a hideous orange and lime green that twelve-year-old Piper had thought were the coolest things ever. “I remember when you left them behind, that summer. I told your folks I’d send them on, but your mother begged me not to.”
Piper grinned. “Looking at them now, I can understand why.” She slipped the garish things on. “Think I’ll be recognizable in them?”
“I’d know you with your face all bandaged up, of course,” Aunt Judy said, patting Piper’s hand. “But someone who met you just once?” She paused, tilting her head speculatively. “I’d say not.”
“Good!” Piper said. She whipped the glasses off. “Trying them on over my contacts, though, is making me seasick.”
“Are you sure what you’re doing is safe?” Aunt Judy asked, a pucker of worry appearing on her brow.
“Absolutely,” Piper assured her. “Miranda and I will stick together, plus we’ll make sure Tortorelli and Signora Conti won’t be the least bit aware of us. It’s probably going to be a waste of time anyway,” she added to lessen her aunt’s concern. “But I want to cover all the bases.”
“Well, you be careful,” Aunt Judy said.
Piper promised and gave her aunt a quick kiss. Then she was off, holding at least part of her disguise and aware that, routine as she’d tried to make it sound, eavesdropping on two people who might turn out to be murderers wasn’t exactly the safest thing to do. But as Miranda had stated, if it had at least a 1 percent chance of helping her father, it 100 percent needed to be done.
“It’s eight eleven,” Miranda said, checking her watch. “When are they coming?” She’d slicked her blond hair back and twisted it into a French braid, a hairdo she’d never worn in Tortorelli’s presence, and donned a long skirt and loose blouse, which was about as far as she could get from her short, formfitting cheerleader’s outfit.
Piper had done her best as well to change her appearance. Besides the huge glasses, she’d tucked her brown hair into a velveteen beret she’d discovered under a jumble of things on a closet shelf, and topped dark slacks with a black sweater. She shrugged. “Caitlyn said they had reservations for eight. I’m sure she’ll let us know if they cancel.”
Miranda nodded, then started giggling. “I’m sorry. Those glasses are so awful.”
“Hey!” Piper protested. “At least they pick up the green in my necklace!”
“Yes, they do,” Miranda agreed, still grinning.
Piper had needed Miranda’s help earlier in reading the menu, explaining, “My prescription has obviously changed since I was twelve. Go figure.”
“I’m glad I drove us tonight,” Miranda teased.
“All of Cloverdale and Bellingham should be grateful.”
Caitlyn suddenly appeared at their table, her colorful Mariachi skirt swishing. “They’re coming,” she whispered, leaning in.
Piper snatched up her menu and held it in front of her face. Miranda did the same, leaving only her eyes visible as she peered beyond Piper’s shoulder. “I see them.”
Piper nodded, keeping her face covered until the couple passed by, trailing a cloud of Francesca’s spicy perfume.
Piper and Miranda’s table, angled as it was to Francesca and Tortorelli’s banquette-style table, gave them a side view of the couple once they’d slid into their seats, and Miranda had taken the closer chair to better pick
up conversation. A scattering of nearby tables were filled as well, so that Piper felt they weren’t too noticeable.
“She’s gorgeous,” Miranda leaned forward to say.
Piper, who’d sneaked a peek as the two settled in, saw that Francesca had donned a black dress that evening, perhaps in an effort to appear more widowlike as she left the hotel. With its extremely low-cut neckline and snug fit that followed Francesca’s generous curves, that dress was highly unlikely to have shown up at any funeral. She’d added a turquoise necklace and bracelet, while large hoop earrings peeked out through her long, dark hair. Tortorelli wore a tweedy sports jacket over an open-necked shirt and dark pants and looked more than pleased to be with his beautiful companion.
Caitlyn filled the couple’s water glasses and recited the day’s specials, which gave Piper another opportunity to check out the two as they focused on their waitress.
“Can you hear okay?” Piper asked in a low voice, leaning toward Miranda.
“I can hear Caitlyn just fine,” Miranda answered just as quietly. “But then her voice carries to the back rows of the Cloverdale Playhouse without any problem.” She lifted her palm when Tortorelli spoke, and listened. “The coach just asked for two margaritas. In English.”
“And you heard it,” Piper said. “Good.”
Another server brought Piper’s and Miranda’s food, something Piper barely remembered ordering but which had plenty of lettuce and guacamole and beans. She poked at it with her fork, her focus remaining on the neighboring table. Caitlyn had whisked off to the bar with the drinks order, and Francesca and Tortorelli began conversing in Italian. Piper looked to Miranda, who was leaning back in her chair.
“Something about the weather, I think,” Miranda said. “Yes, la pioggia. That means rain. They’re worried it might rain tomorrow.”
“Why?” Piper asked. “What do they want to do?”
Miranda listened. “She wants to go shopping. But she doesn’t want to get wet. He said he’ll get an umbrella.”
“Wow, this is great,” Piper said dryly. She found a chicken chunk amid her lettuce. “With luck, we’ll get the next day’s forecast, too.”
Caitlyn delivered drinks to the couple and on her way back stopped at Piper and Miranda’s table. “Everything okay here?” she asked brightly.
“Delicious,” Miranda said, “but boring.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of Francesca’s table.
“Just wait,” Caitlyn said, lowering her voice. “I told Jason to give their drinks some extra zip.”
“Not enough to put them to sleep, I hope. They’re putting me to sleep, already.”
Caitlyn winked and moved on.
Francesca spoke, and Miranda translated the string of words, which were generally unflattering comments on the town. “She wants to go to Syracuse or Rochester for her shopping. He said something about la polizia, the police.”
Piper perked up. “What about the police?”
Miranda shook her head. “I couldn’t catch all of it, but I think it was something about the police wanting them to stay, or it looks better to the police if they stay in town.”
“Hmmm. A bit suspicious?”
“But now she’s saying she doesn’t care what the polizia think, and he’s saying . . . Darn, I didn’t catch it!”
“Don’t worry,” Piper said. “His body language just spoke volumes.” Piper had noted through casually spread fingers held to her face that Tortorelli had slipped his arm around Francesca’s shoulders and leaned closer to nuzzle her cheek. “Don’t look,” she warned as Miranda’s head started to turn.
“No fair,” Miranda complained. “You have the better view.”
“I’d happily switch if I could translate Italian into English.” Piper had taken care to shield her face as much as possible since the couple’s arrival, either with a hand, napkin, or drinking glass, but her heart still skipped a beat anytime either the coach or Francesca glanced around. The frequency of that happening, however, was lessening as the margarita glasses were drained.
Caitlyn brought the couple’s food, and things quieted down at the table. Piper was pleased to see that wineglasses had replaced the empty cocktail glasses and that a bottle remained at the table for refills. Some mutterings could be heard, but Miranda reported them to be comments on the food. From what Piper could see, the pair were enjoying their dinners immensely, tasting each other’s dishes and following bites with generous swallows of wine.
How did Francesca keep that fabulous figure with an appetite like that? Piper wondered. Was the choice to dine at the Mariachi because of the cuisine rather than a search for privacy? But then, as their plates began to empty—along with the wine bottle—the couple turned their attention back to each other.
Caitlyn, Piper could see, hadn’t exaggerated. Arm rubs, cuddles, and the occasional discreet kiss convinced her that Francesca and Tortorelli were definitely enamored of each other. The question was, had this flared up only since Conti’s death? Or had the relationship been kept under wraps for a long time?
“They’ve just ordered coffee and dessert,” Miranda reported. “That is, he’s getting coffee, and she’s getting dessert. Fried ice cream.”
Piper sighed. Learning the couple’s food preferences might have been more useful if Conti had been poisoned, not shot. How did Francesca manage all those calories?
It was while consuming some of those yummy calories, however, that Francesca finally dropped something interesting. Miranda’s eyes widened as she listened.
“What?” Piper urged. “What did she say?”
“Um,” Miranda said, pausing to gulp, “she just said she’d been waiting a long time to be rid of Raffaele.”
Piper suppressed a yelp but couldn’t stop her eyes from darting toward the couple. Unfortunately, Tortorelli glanced her way at the same time, and he was scowling furiously. Piper quickly raised a napkin to her lips and turned away. Had she been too late? Was Tortorelli scowling because he’d recognized Piper? Or was he angry over what Francesca had said?
“He just told her to be quiet,” Miranda reported.
Piper wished she could see Francesca’s reaction, but she didn’t dare look.
“He said she needed to be more careful,” Miranda said, her voice fairly squeaking by then.
Francesca’s dismissive laugh carried easily to their ears. Piper heard the word “stupido.” “Is she calling him stupid?”
Miranda’s eyes blinked furiously as she processed what she’d just heard. “Not him,” she said at last. Miranda looked squarely at Piper. “Francesca called Sheriff Carlyle stupid.”
18
Tortorelli signaled for the check, and Piper leaned over to Miranda. “Let’s go.”
Miranda nodded and put down her napkin, whispering, “What about the bill?”
“We’ll catch Caitlyn on our way out.” Piper didn’t know if Tortorelli had recognized her or not, but if he had and wondered why Piper had turned up at this out-of-the-way restaurant and at the very next table, she didn’t want to be around for him to inquire.
Piper and Miranda slipped away from their table as casually as possible and headed toward the front of the restaurant, grateful for the clutch of late arrivals who passed by and quickly blocked Tortorelli’s line of vision. Piper hailed Caitlyn with a silent wave and pulled a few bills from her purse. That taken care of, she turned toward the exit, when a voice nearby suddenly cried, “Piper!”
Piper froze.
“Piper, what are you doing here?” It was Ben Schaeffer, Erin’s boyfriend and Sheriff Carlyle’s intrepid volunteer auxiliary policeman. Piper wasn’t sure which of them was the more surprised, particularly as Erin wasn’t the pretty young woman who was sitting beside him. Instead, she was a stranger, who seemed to be about Erin’s age but with red hair instead of brown.
Ben stood, effectively halting Piper’s pla
n to hurry out the door, and began introducing her to his table companion. As he did, Miranda whispered in her ear, “They’re coming this way!”
Piper turned her back toward the path Tortorelli and Francesca would take, while still managing to face Ben.
“. . . Leila will be starting work at my office tomorrow,” Ben was saying as Leila smiled broadly at Piper through pink-glossed lips. “My insurance business has picked up lately. I realized I needed help.”
Piper caught a whiff of spicy perfume, and she tugged at her beret as she ducked her head. Miranda sank onto an empty chair at Ben’s table and covered her face with her hands. Muttered words in Italian could be heard as the couple passed by, and—to Piper’s relief—continued on. She took a deep breath and smiled at Leila.
“So, are you new to Cloverdale?” she asked.
“I am! I just moved there from Pennsylvania. I can’t believe my luck in finding such a great job right away.” She beamed at Ben.
“Leila’s still settling in,” Ben said. “I thought a dinner out . . . you know . . . to welcome her to the office and all . . .”
“I just love Mexican food!” Leila said, jumping in.
So of course, Piper thought dryly, taking his new employee to a restaurant out of town, where they wouldn’t run into Ben’s girlfriend, made perfect sense. In his defense, Ben had hailed Piper and, despite his verbal stumbling, didn’t seem to find the situation embarrassing.
“Well, Leila,” Piper said. “I hope you enjoy Cloverdale and your new job.”
As they headed to the door, Miranda muttered, “Isn’t Ben seeing Erin?”
“He is. And as far as I can tell this seems to be strictly him being a good boss. That’s new to him, you know, being a boss. He’s learning the ropes.”
License to Dill Page 12
